


Just Who's Enthralled?

by KassieProphet



Series: Ghost Prompts [35]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Consensual Mind Control, Cunnilingus, Dracopia, F/M, Gothic tropes, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay, POV Female Character, Reader-Insert, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampire!Copia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Tumblr Prompt:I wanna see your take on Vampire! Copia with a submissive!female (human) s/o in bed.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Reader
Series: Ghost Prompts [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536134
Comments: 35
Kudos: 42





	Just Who's Enthralled?

Copia may be a younger vampire, but he’s still pretty old in terms of human lifetimes (think hundreds of years instead of millennia). He’s not a celibate blood drinker, but he  _ is _ pretty choosey about his lovers—he takes one for a lifetime and then spends another lifetime in mourning after they grow old and die. So he’s always  _ always _ a decade behind in current courtship procedures. 

He’s been able to roll with the times: selling his gothic castle for a brooding manor house—Charlotte Brontë instead of Bram Stoker—with his thralls as his clavigers and main … er … sustenance. Sure, the neighbors who are acres away think the old, eccentric man with his pantheon of pale servants is a little … dare they say—creepy? But mostly he’s left in peace to read his ancient tomes and spend nights out with the wind beneath his bat wings as he searches for a fresh meal—and maybe a little hanky-panky, yes?

You came to him quite by accident; Copia had been (reluctantly) throwing a soirée for his sire and blood siblings, and—with his usual thralls busy with setting up and running errands—he had need of a cleaning service. When you’d shown up in your starched, white uniform and cleaning cart—all stuttering and mumbles when faced with his mismatched gaze—he’d known he was lost for this lifetime.

He’d known he’d had to have you.

At the time, you hadn’t known why the hair on the back of your neck had risen when you thought you were alone in a room, or why there always seemed to be somebody  _ just _ behind you until you turned around. But now you know it was him watching, admiring—the stretch of your limbs, the concentration on your face, the sinuous way you maneuvered the vacuum cleaner. Oh how he’d longed to unclasp the clip from your hair so he could smell the sweet fragrance of your shampoo wafting across the room—the thought of brushing it away from the vein in your neck making his fangs distend and drip with his sweet poison!

But you were no meal, no! You were a deer to tame—and he was willing to sit motionless in the clover, hand outstretched, as long as it took for you to come to him. Copia knew you weren’t to be won over by flowers and chocolates delivered to your door—he’d known enough about this contemporary era to know that was no longer considered couth. 

No, it had started with a simple summons to his study—a cliche of a room filled with mahogany furniture and a globe—where he’d given you a soft  _ Thank you _ for a job well done and a generous tip (which you tried to refuse, stammering), his fingertips lightly brushing yours as he handed over the envelope. Still dubious about the man, you’d eventually relented when he hadn’t pressed you for more.

When you’d been sent to him  _ especially _ the next week, you thought:  _ Ah, there it is _ .

But it had been the same as before—though with less of the pomp bustle about the imposing household. The week before, you’d watched his servants efficiently—if dully—perform their party duties. That week … not a soul seemed to be around—though you still had felt that prickle of unease crawl up the nape of your neck as you cleaned.

Again, Copia had drawn you into his study to render a sizable tip—but nothing more.

The weeks had gone on like this, and you’d soon gotten used to the weight of being watched (boiling it down to the presence that all old houses seemed to have) and of Copia’s unsaid admiration—for it was there: in the steadiness of his gaze on yours; the subtle inhalation when you reached for the envelope; and the way you sometimes caught his eyes sweeping up your form.

The first time you’d found him in one of the rooms (having become fairly accustomed to encountering none of the household) reading a book in the darkest corner, you’d been surprised—but not scared. Soon, however, it became a game to you to guess in which room you’d find him.

You had a bingo card at home.

Those encounters had led to brief questions on the book in his hand, which had then led to longer discussions, with those in turn leading to lengthier debates that had spilled into the study—where light nibbles started appearing.

By the time you’d found the creamy cardstock in your tips envelope, you were more than happy to accept this odd, but charming man’s formal request to court you. It meant you’d have to stop cleaning the house for him—but you were more than happy for the trade off.

Somehow you’d expected him to wow you  _ Pretty Woman _ style—with jewels and trips to the opera—but instead he wooed you with candlelit dinners at holes in the walls, moonlit walks down the beach, and quiet nights in by his library fireside.

At first, you’d dreaded the end of each date, wondering if this was the one where his hands would end up under your clothes, but—other than some gentles kisses—he remained a perfect gentleman. Your initial relief eventually turned into consternation, which morphed into frustration.

When you’d finally confronted him, all uncharacteristic fire and affront, he’d merely looked at you with mirth dancing in those mismatched eyes.

“Ah, but  _ mia cerva _ —I was waiting on you. This is meaning you are ready to come to me,  _ si _ ?”

That was the first night the two of you had made love in his four poster bed, and—though he was gentle—you could tell he was holding back. When you’d finally grown bold enough to question him about it, he’d waved you off. Though you still cared for him, the honeymoon period was over and you began to grow suspicious: the eerie, ghostly servants? the inexplicable and unexplained absences in the middle of the night? the locked rooms? how he only seemed to push around his food? how you could never explain why you suddenly dropped each query?

You’d set about exploring all the nooks and crannies of his estate during those nightly disappearances—which was often stymied by the sudden appearance of his silent servants, who (though anemic-looking) still had firmly escorted you away from private rooms and locked doors.

And he must have known—he  _ had _ to have—but never once did he bring up your midnight wanderings. In fact, he studiously avoided that topic with the air of one unconcerned—which was the hubris that ultimately led to his unveiling.

You had woken again to find him gone from his bed, so—armed with a tiny flashlight—you’d once again set out on your exploration. Maybe some part of him wanted you to find him; maybe an unsuccessful hunt affected his reasoning; maybe it happened so frequently he thought himself safe from your investigations—whatever the cause, you had found him in his sterile, stainless steel kitchen. 

The kitchen was only supposed to be a shortcut, but when you’d slowly opened the door—the moonlight from one of the windows casting a pale square into the relative pitch of the room—you’d found him bent over, the neck of one of his thralls (who was limp and clasped to him, eyes rolled back in ecstasy) pressed to his mouth.

You must have made a noise, because he had looked up violently—his eyes a deep red and his lips now claret. And there had been fear—a skip of your heart and a draining of blood from your face—but there had also been a deep welling of hurt that had brought the blood back up. Your lover! With another in his close embrace!

Eyes burning, you’d thrown your flashlight at him before hurrying away from the scene—

But then he was  _ right there _ beside you—eyes and lips now their normal hues—grasping your elbow and begging you to listen. You hadn’t wanted to—but he’d fallen to his knees, hands clasped in your nightshirt, and had begged you not to cast him aside.

It had been a fraught night full of revelations and hard truths: he’d been afraid that you’d reject him and then he would have to compel you to forget him for his own safety; that while he subsisted on human blood, he never took a vital amount; and that he granted his clavigers a sort of extended life in return for their services.

You’d subsequently needed a considerable amount of time away from him to think … but after weeks of misery, you’d been able to go through all the stages into acceptance. By the time you’d come back to him, you’d found him in a deplorable state—frail, emaciated, and sulking. Alarmed, you’d taken him into your arms, holding your wrist under his nose. His fangs had slid over his bottom lip—the tips just beginning to poke into your flesh—when he’d suddenly recoiled.

“No! Not from you—not like that!” he’d cried in horror, and you’d been forced to do a panicked search of the manor in order to find a thrall—make that two—that looked sturdy enough to donate.

They’d followed you placidly (“He does this every couple of decades”) and once they were within his range, Copia grabbed one to him—his teeth sinking into the neck of one as he slurped and grunted, his sharp nails also piercing skin. The other had to step in when the first one drooped, offering up their fresh neck as a replacement.

You’d watched, eyes wide, a little frightened—but also entranced. And it was ultimately up to you to stop Copia from taking too much from his second thrall. He’d turned his red eyes on you, mouth opening to a row of bloody teeth that he bared at you with a feral growl. It made you step back, hand out in defense—but just as quickly, he’d closed his eyes, taken a deep breath, and seemed to count to ten.

When he’d opened his eyes again, they were back to normal—and his fangs had retracted. His eyes had eagerly taken you in, but his steps toward you were slow and halting. He’d held out his arms, and—when you stepped toward him—he’d enfolded you in his embrace, calling you  _ amate _ and asking wetly if you’d come back to him.

That night, Copia had let you peek behind the curtain, holding you down with his unnatural strength and scraping his fangs lightly enough along your skin not to draw blood, but enough to leave red marks and a slight numbness. You’d easily let him take control, allowing him dominate you in a way previously unseen. 

(He’d also shown you that his refractory period had been a lie—“I can control  _ all _ blood flow in my body, pet”—until you had to call uncle.)

It wasn’t lost on Copia on how willingly and prettily you’d submitted to him, and it wasn’t too long before he’d asked you to submit to him fully—something you’d eagerly agreed to, happy to give him control over your body.

* * *

Tonight, however, is a turning point—after weeks of play with just his physical advantages, you finally feel comfortable allowing Copia to compel you in bed … and to perhaps have a little taste.

Copia has instructed you to wear a white shift—the idea of drops of your blood stark against it gets him going—but when you meet him in the bedroom, you find him still encased in his tight, black suit.

His hand reaches out, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear, then tilting your head up for a kiss.

“Are you ready to play,  _ mia cerva _ ?”

“Yes, sir,” you say, and he licks his lips.

“Then up you go on the bed. Up, up, up!”

You scramble up onto the bed, then lay prone on your back.

“Very good, pet. Stretch out for me,  _ per favore _ .”

You slowly relax into the bed, take a deep breath, then extend your arms and legs. Copia, his bulge clearly visible now, practically alights onto the bed, crawling over you like a great predatory beast. Shaking, he touches his forehead to yours so that you have to look directly into his colorless eye.

“Look at me, pet.  _ Sí _ , that’s it.”

Both of your eyes focus on it, and it seems to get bigger as your world gets smaller; you’re spinning around and the blown pupil is at the center of it, locking you in place. It’s getting closer—or you’re getting smaller—and it suddenly feels like you’re caught, a fly in amber, unable to move or hold onto a 

…

…

“ _ Bene _ ,  _ bene _ . Now: no moving your hands or feet. They are too heavy.  _ Sí _ ?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only my command or your safeword will set you free.  _ Comprendere _ ?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sits up, resting on his haunches astride you. You blink rapidly, suddenly snapping back to attention—your world coming back into focus and stilling; you move your head back and forth to reassure yourself of where you are. Copia leans forward to run a gloved finger down the side of your cheek.

“Yes, you are here, pet. Now. Try the moving?”

It’s not an order, but you comply, testing the constraints of his enthrallment; you can move your head and most of your body … but it’s as if your wrists and ankles are held down by great, immovable weights.

“ _ Bene _ ,” he purrs as his finger trails down your neck—lingering on your pulse point—and then down to one of your breasts. Through your shift, he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You moan and arch a little, the feeling stoking a throb between your legs. He moves his attentions to your other nipple, which only increases the pulse in your cunt. 

Copia is content with the nipple play, his gaze intent on your flushed and slack face, despite the patch of wetness forming near his crotch.

“I would like to see you cum, just like this.”

You groan—the lack of direct touch to your clit is a frustration, and the way your legs are sprawled, you can’t squeeze our thighs together.

Copia—aware of your squirming—makes a  _ tsk _ noise.

“Be a good little pet, and maybe I’ll be touching you for round 2.”

You settle back into the bed with a huff. Copia continues to squeeze your nipples, allowing the sinuous wriggling of your hips that are in time to his pinches. There’s nothing to press against, but that doesn’t stop you from rocking your hips as the pooling between your legs begins to throb to your heartbeat.

Copia seems unaffected, but you see that his fangs have distended and are dripping. Still, he slowly and steadily manipulates you, switching between both breasts every few minutes. You try contracting your muscles—anything that will build you up further to release from this slow simmer.

The minutes have been ticking by and racking up. Your head is beginning to loll back and forth—your eyes rolling—and you catch Copia running his tongue over his fangs; he deliberately lifts enough to ruck your shift up over your breasts. Before leaning down, he sucks his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, then rolls one of your nipples between them while he uses his tongue to lave at your other one.

You let out a whine of pleasure … or frustration (you’re not sure which), and it only encourages Copia; his tongue speeds up to an inhuman pace, as does the swipe of his thumb. It’s sending sparks that’re causing your clit to throb, while the pooling blood is making your lips feel full and heavy.

You’re twitching and jerking as he again switches sides. The press of his erection into your hip—giving minute throbs—and the thought of how his finger feels on your clit when he speeds is what finally  _ finally _ pushes you over the edge. Your back bows—your breath catching for a second—and then you’re moaning wantonly, hips bucking in time to each spasm of your orgasm.

When you melt back into the bed, sighing, Copia straightens up and gently pulls your shift back down to your stomach before slithering down our body. You have an idea of what’s coming, but still twitch when his thumb circles your sensitive clit. He just rumbles and points his tongue to thrust in and out of your hole. You gasp at the dual sensation, straining again against your invisible bonds.

Copia’s thumb circles and presses and taps at your ever-hardening clit as his tongue plunges and licks and explores. You’re rocking and bucking again as he brings you swiftly close to orgasm—

—and then he stops.

You whine in unsated distress.

Delay is his favorite game. His fingers don’t cramp. His neck doesn’t get a crink. It’s just you, him, and a passage of time that means nothing to him. What’s an hour here and there compared against the span of hundreds of years?

You’re panting, sweating, and taught as a bow string—your shoulders now trembling at the strain of you arching on and off the bed—ready to cum if the air so much as shifts over your clit. And that’s when Copia brings back his inhuman speed to swipe his thumb over your engorged nub. You scream out—hardly sensible to how your body is twisting, and it feels almost like you climax sharply twice in quick succession—then you briefly feel two sharp pricks on your inner thigh before your whole shatters in a swirling wheel of sharded pleasure.

Who knows how long you float along in a fog of ecstasy—but when you anchor back into your body, you’re aware that some of that sweetness is due to the wiggly tongue that’s lapping up and down through your slit from your clit to your hole. 

Copia doesn’t eat, but you’re his favorite meal.

“ _ Please _ ,” you rasp, hardly knowing if you’re pleading for him to stop or keep going.

He goes for option 2, and you’re soon back to jerking and twisting as his clever tongue licks you to  _ just near _ completion—your pussy giving soft pulses—before he’s backing off … always waiting for your whining to stop and your muscles to relax before he starts up again.

You can’t clamp your thighs around his head, but you can push yourself into his waiting tongue. In the end it doesn’t really matter—he controls when you climax anyway—but it makes you  _ feel _ as if you have some modicum of control over your own pleasure.

You’re pleading and begging, your shift is soaked through, and your hair sticking to you, before Copia finally allows you to cum for the third time. You cry tears of relief all the way through each wave of orgasm and clench of muscles.

After you come down, you lie there in a haze before you realize that Copia is hovering over you, naked, his hips pumping in between your slick- and sweat-soaked thighs. Not having to breathe, he doesn’t really pant or wheeze unless you remind him to—so right now he’s just gazing at you intently with lust-dark eyes as he plunges his cock in and out of your hole. He has to actively create body heat, so he loves how hot you feel around him, loves shoving in deep and holding there as his dick gives great throbs.

His fangs start dripping again, so you know you’re in trouble a second before he really starts jackhammering into you—his hips angled to pound into your G-spot. Copia  _ can _ get tired … but he always seems to have enough energy and stamina to keep himself hard until he’s satisfied with what he gets from your body, so you’re never exactly sure how many times he can climax—the only signs usually being a subtle shiver or minute twitch of his hips. But tonight you know immediately because he leans down—one second he’s above you, the next he’s at your neck—and you feel the telltale prick of his fangs again.

You’re able to register his deep groan before the stained glass of your world cracks and fractures again into deep fissures of pleasure that seem to run down your body and then back up again in an ever decreasing feedback loop. When your consciousness solidifies again, you’re sluggishly aware of Copia’s rough tongue lapping at your neck even as he’s still fucking into you.

He doesn’t bite you again—which is good because you definitely feel a little lightheaded—but his mouth finds yours for the duration of his quest to use you for multiple orgasms as long as you can take it. Your endorphin high does eventually wear off, and you’re suddenly aware of the stiffness of your limbs, the burgeoning soreness between your legs, and a desperate need for water. Sensing your unease, Copia speeds up impossibly before suddenly slamming into you before his hips give a few more twitches as he climaxes inside you for the last time.

He has to hold you by the jaw to keep your head still while he breaks the enthrallment.

“My  _ amore _ , you are no longer so laden down. Your body is now your own.”

And just like that, it’s as if a rubber band snaps, and you’re able to pull your arms into you as you curl up into yourself. Copia’s hands are all over you, running up and down your sides and caressing your skin as he murmurs endearments at you in both English and Italian. Then he’s raising you up—his rock solid arm supporting you as you flop about—and a drink is being pressed to your lips; you shakily grab it and gulp it down greedily. Despite your onset sleepiness, Copia helps you to nibble down a protein bar and to take care of yourself in the bathroom.

He wants to lounge with you in a bubble bath, but you whine at him until he carries you—bridal style—back to bed. There, you’re content to curl into his surprisingly soft body, letting him pet you as you drift off to sleep.

Later, Copia will be worried that he pushed you too hard, but you’ll silence him with a kiss and an assertion that you can’t wait to try out what other tricks he has up his sleeve.


End file.
